Tumbles

I was the kid with sap in my hair and animal teeth. I still am, but now my hairs clean, and its my heart that gets stuck. I never went to school. Not because I played hookey, but because my mom decided to homeschool my older sister and I. We aren't conservative christians, or the strange outliers that most people think of when they hear homeschoolers. Quite the opposite. My sister and I were "hippy kids" for lack of better words, and I cannot imagine a better way to grow up. While most other children were sitting in nicely lined desks, filling their minds with fluff about which kinds of stardust are real, my sister and I were navigating the world with our hands. We would rub dandelions on our skins, because everyone knows that faeries are yellow. We got up around 9 o'clock and played until it got dark. Climbing trees, reinacting the heroes from our favorite books, playing dress-up, and having tea parties. Growing up like this is the real reason I am on my journey today. I truly believe that if I had gone to school, I would have lost my self, and it would be far too hard to regain it.

For I have never really stopped being myself. By the time I went to "real school" in 9th grade, I knew Santa Clause and Harry Potter didn't exist, but I never stopped believing in magic. I guess in a lot of ways I never really stopped being six years old. I found that even though I had not received "conventional learning" I was still ahead of most kids in my grade!


 People sneer the word naive through their teeth, like it is a bad, stupid thing to be, but I feel sorry for those who aren't. It's not that I don't know the risks, it's just that I chose to believe in something else. It's not that I don't know the danger of strangers but I have chosen to believe in something else.

Childhood and the sweet warm memories that lie somewhere in the peripheral vision of my minds eye. You can almost see them clearly.

Blurred light, mingled voices, taste of something soft and sweet on your tongue.

Never again to be seen in plain view—

The outliers, the folded eggwhites of life’s lane. 

Where does childhood lie?

It is in the corners of my eyes. The way my crow’s feet have already begun to crinkle with 20 years of laughter. It lies in the way I move my hands, the way my legs itch to run in a circular dizzying way. It lies in the craving to explore jungle gyms. It lies in the need to be held, to cry, to laugh. It is the impossibilities.

Of Hymns and Pearls and other delightful things

Things will take care of themselves.

After intending to write a post about souls and guides, I was somewhat deterred when asked to open a page in Frye's book and write about what I found. After reading some blogs, I have been overwhelmed at the level of academic writing and somewhat intimidated at how to dissect a passage from Frye. However, to my delight, my hands, once again, led me to the right page, the right paragraph, and the right sentence.

"What confronts the teacher of literature is the student's whole verbal experience, including this subliterary nine-tenths of it. One of the things that the study of literature should do is help the student become aware of his own mythological conditioning, especially on the more passive and critically examined levels" (Frye 167). And then I realized how truly lucky I was to have landed here, in Oceans of Stories, for once again the world was providing me with exactly what I needed. 

My heart was open and humbled when I learned about The Hymn of the Pearl and realizing that however alone I feel sometimes on my journey, I am by no means the only one feeling this way, nor are my actions as unique as I think they are. For someone has already written of my soul's journey, and done it far more beautifully than me! 

The Hymn of the Pearl, and stories without morals, and souls that are scratching at the door has got me wondering and loving at every twist and curve of the day, of a doorframe, at the sight and sound of love. It has me swerving. 

This quote from Frye has reminded me how important literature can be, and how important teachers acting as guides are. How alone and miserable I would be, never knowing what has been felt by other people. Never quite desperate as Hamlet, or even as passionate as Juliet, these stories let me know that the way I am feeling is OK. Even these blogs speak as an insight to someone that I would never talk to. 

What is my mythological conditioning? I'm not certain of the answer yet, but I feel that the answer will unpack itself in my writings, as long as I keep them true. 

This class is the letter reminding our souls to look for the pearl. How beautiful those words are! Soul, pearl, letter, hymn, swerve...Don't they make you just want to dance? Don't you just want to laugh about love, and lilies, and the kiss of a dewdrop on a morning glory? 

The letter has come and I am beginning to read it. Come in the shape of this class and with Professor Sexton as the guide, but really, my soul wrote this a long time ago. For me, this letter has come again and again, and perhaps one of these swerving days I will remember it, but for now... My soul reminds me that shapes and words come out of the most surprising places and linger in your heart to write your own story of love. 

Beginning Story

As I left class and begin walking home I would not and could not put in my earphones and listen to my iPod. Out of the thousands of songs on the electronic device, I knew there was not one that was as beautiful as the sound my soul was making, and the song that was swelling in my blood, my brain, my fingertips!

I had forgotten about stories. And in that, I had forgotten how to live.

What is the use of telling stories that aren’t true?

Because they are the most important part of being human. They do not give you the what, but the HOW. How to live your life. How to take part in the most essential of human functions and listen to your soul.

They do not give you the what. What to buy, what to wear, who to date, where to live, when to get married.

Stories tell you how. How to remember the magic and what fairydust feels like. How to ask questions, how to look into someone’s eyes, how to feel what is right and wrong in your gut, how to be authentic, how to laugh, and most importantly, how to love.

A story. I know what it feels like to fill the air until you think your skin might burst, and the hairs on your arms are electric, and your eyes are brimming with fluid. I have told a story that I have never heard and will never tell again. Could never tell again because his skin next to mine, and his head touching mine, and the way that the thunder shook our whole house is just as much a part of the story as my lips forming the words were.

I can tell you about following your soul and where stories will lead you if you let them. When I was 15 years old something clicked in my chest, and I knew that I had to leave. So long ago, and yet so near, that I can barely remember; I was so unconscious of my brain and body. Something ancient in me knew it was time to go. And so my feet, screaming and kicking in the peculiar way they do when your heart leads you on a quest, led me to Argentina. And to park benches with scraps of paper, writing stories and truths and pulling on Lucky Strikes. Stories poured out of my body onto the page in the unique way that only 16 yr olds can tell. In the special, not yet woman, but no longer child, cocoon and metamorphisis stage that begins before you know how to censor your words.

But when I returned home something strange happened.

For awhile my hands were silent. They found love, and left love. They found tequila and then whiskey. They found stories in their friends that shook them, and still did not remember how to write. They scraped at the air, finger nails filled with fluff, pawing at the door, but they did not find stories again for awhile.

I had slipped back into sleep. High school and whatever odd state it is, sucked me back in, after I had grown so much in Argentina.

And then out of nowhere, my soul peeked it’s sleepy little head out and said again, “now.” And I knew I could not go to college, I knew that I had to leave my friends, my family, my lover, and kick out my dusty boots. Somewhere inside me knew that this was the beginning of the most important journey and only if I spoke truly would I learn. Somewhere even though my mind kicked, and my brain screamed, and my parents worried, my soul came back and told me to find the stories. Told me that it was the most important thing. The most important thing, for a silly girl of 17! Stories. Find them.

She, my soul, my guide, the only one with me on these journeys, led me to India to begin with. She led me to the banks of the Ganges and to hear stories of Shiva and Ram laughed through 8 yr olds tongues. She led me to believe in magic because I had seen it and felt it. She led me to see snakes, monkeys, and cows, and the beginning of an adventure that will finish when my bones are too weary to move.

After India I returned home, my heart full and wild, ready to share these stories. My shell had fallen off, and I believe at that time, if you had turned the lights out I would have shone through every crevice. My smile was unguarded, my eyes were new, and my mouth swirled and twirled through tales of adventure.

Then she led me to Guatemala. And that is when I discovered that little girls who try to shine will get hurt. There is a reason that the people around you have walls, and eye makeup and other forms of guard. I worked in a domestic violence shelter and the stories I learned there broke my heart again and again. Every morning my feet would take me to a place where I knew I would be broken open again. The sap of so many peoples pain was flowing in and out of me, and more often than not getting stuck in my hair. I did not know how to be alive and not get hurt. Either by the men that would follow me home, or in my own home, brought down by people who have stopped believing in magic. I had stories that my hands were afraid to write. I had seen faces that I did not know how to honestly portray. I had looked into eyes and what I found there sometimes scared me. 

I returned home wary. Far from the light that seeped into the corners of each room, I was cautious, angry, and clouded.

So I worked to save up money and she led to me to Argentina again. And the kindness of people who would pick me up when I flung my thumb to the wind. Oh, the stories I would tell, half in Spanish, half in body movements, begging the drives to understand and to entertain them on what is so often a cruelly long drive. You cannot sleep when picked up. Even though your body craves it so, finally settling into a seat that holds you unlike a sidewalk does, and a heater that warms you unlike a sleeping bag can. You owe it to your guardian angel to keep the driver awake and glad that they picked up you. But more than that I was beginning to learn how to love. How to let my soul speak instead of my mind. To dance in the rain, and to sing down the streets. In the freedom of a place where no one knows you exist, the price of crazy is low. You can skip down the street whistling, and I often did. You can tell stories that are not true, even remotely, and wonder how much the truth really matters. You can move your body and swing your hips. With the freedom of anonymity comes an adventure of soul and body, and learning how to connect the two. I was relearning what I thought I knew. Phoenix rising, again and again.

What can be more beautiful than your mind, body, and soul learning to love each other? And is there a more beautiful way than through telling stories that aren’t even true?